Pamela Clare - Striking Distance

Laura replied, her voice soft.

Javier was about to ask who the man was and what the hell he’d said to her when a door opened, and a woman appeared in the hallway. She wore a long tunic of embroidered gray silk with matching silk pants, an ivory scarf draped loosely over her long, dark hair. Her eyes were red from crying, the grief on her face unmistakable. Behind her, women stood in the doorway of what appeared to be a bedroom, peering out at Laura.

Karima Al Zahrani, the boy’s mother.

Naturalized citizen. Teaches Arabic at CU-Denver. Votes. No arrests.

The house fell silent.

The woman reached for Laura with both hands.

Laura went to her, again speaking in Arabic.

The woman replied, took Laura’s hands in hers, bent down, and kissed them.

LAURA WASN’T HUNGRY, but she made herself eat the food she’d been offered, washing down Medjoul dates and bread with sips of strong coffee while her hosts and their other guests spoke about young Ali, the boy they’d all lost. Zach had been right about them. They weren’t extremists. They weren’t even strict.

Many were U.S. citizens, had teaching jobs with the university, and maintained very progressive attitudes. Most of the women didn’t cover, and few of the men had beards. Rather than being separated, men and women mingled freely. They reminded Laura of some of the families she’d met on her one and only trip to Saudi Arabia, families that adhered to the strict laws and traditions of their country while in public but lived a very different life behind closed doors. At the same time, they embodied everything she loved about Middle Eastern culture—warmth, generosity, hospitality.

“We are most anxious to get his body back for burial,” said Hussein Al Zahrani, the boy’s paternal uncle, who ran a halal grocery store on East Colfax. More conservative than the others, he had declined to shake her hand and was furious that his nephew’s remains hadn’t yet been returned. “When will his body be released to us?”

Laura wished she had an answer for them. It was Islamic tradition to bury the dead before sunset on the day they died. “I’m sorry. I wish I knew, but I don’t.”

“Come.” Karima, Ali’s mother, rose to her feet.

Laura walked beside her down the hall and into Ali’s bedroom, Yusif, the boy’s father, and Javier following behind them. Laura wasn’t sure why they were bringing her here. Maybe it was their way of sharing their love for Ali, of trying to show her that there was more to their son than the act of violence that had led to his death and would now come to define his life.

It was clear that federal investigators had combed through the room inch by inch, searching every nook and cranny. There was no computer at the desk, no cell phone plugged into the charger. The shelves had been stripped of books. A small black metal filing cabinet stood open, its drawers empty. The closet door was open, too, a young man’s clothes—jeans, hoodies, T-shirts—pushed to the side, their pockets turned out, board games lying in a haphazard pile on the closet floor.

And then Laura began to notice the details. Little League trophies on the shelf. A ball and glove in the corner, a bat propped up beside them. A framed high school diploma. A plaque for making the honor roll all four quarters of his senior year. A poster of a young Marilyn Monroe on one wall. One of the Avengers on another.

How had he gone from all-American boy to suicide bomber?

Laura ran her fingers over the Little League trophies, over the frame of the diploma, mementos of a young boy’s achievements, now reminders of a wasted life.

Karima’s quiet weeping came from behind, interrupting Laura’s thoughts.

Laura turned to see Karima sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands pressed over her face. Laura sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, speaking in English now. “I’m so sorry.”

“He was a good boy, a good boy. I loved him so much. My son.” Karima sobbed out the words. “There was no hate inside him. He was born here. He was a citizen. He loved America.”

Karima’s grief cut through Laura, touched close to her own deepest grief. And yet Laura couldn’t imagine what Karima was feeling. Karima had raised her son, watched him grow from the day he was born. Laura had never even held Klara.

She pushed her own sadness aside. This wasn’t about her.

Then Yusif spoke, chin quivering. “Ali wanted to join the army, but I didn’t want him to go. He is our only son. Our only child. I didn’t want to lose him. He accepted our decision. He stayed and went to college. And now he’s dead.”

Karima looked up at Laura through tear-filled eyes. “He would never have tried to hurt you. When you were taken, when we saw on the news that you’d been killed, my boy cried. He was only fourteen then. He was angry at the men who’d hurt you. He told me that no true Muslim would harm a woman like that. He felt no respect for Al-Nassar. I cannot believe that he did what they say he did. I cannot believe it.”

Yusif wiped tears from his face with a big hand. “He was never in trouble. He worked hard at school and at his job. Every afternoon after classes he went to work at my brother’s grocery, stocking shelves, cleaning. He never complained, even when he worked late. How could such a fate have befallen him?”

Laura swallowed hard, tears sliding down her cheeks, her heart feeling as if it might burst. She looked from Karima to Yusif to Javier, who stood in one corner, arms crossed over his chest, a grave expression on his face. “I . . . I don’t know. But I’ll do my best to find out.”

“I DON’T UNDERSTAND it. How could the kid cry when he heard I’d been killed and then a few years later try to kill me himself? How could he be on the dean’s list in December and a terrorist by February? It doesn’t make sense.”

“When does terrorism ever make sense?” Javier watched Laura battle with her emotions while she attempted to make coffee, her mind distracted, her movements wooden. Truth be told, he felt more than a little shaken up, too.

First, whatever had happened when he’d seen that helo, and then . . .

He’d been to more funerals than he cared to count, lost men who were like brothers to him, and yet something about today had hit him hard. The kid had died for nothing, the life he’d been given wasted, his parents’ lives destroyed by his actions.

Now Javier understood why this had been so important to Laura. Somehow she’d realized how terrible his parents must feel about what their son had tried to do. She’d let them see that she held no grudge against them or their religion or culture, bringing them a sense of redemption. She’d enabled them to grieve without guilt.

“You did a good thing tonight. You were right. It was important.”

“I didn’t do anything. Their son is gone. They’ll never see him again, hug him again, hear his voice again. It’s not even their fault.” She pushed the brew button on her coffeemaker and turned to face him, fingers pressed to one temple. “They have to live with what he did and what was done to him, but they didn’t teach him to hate.”

“What about the kid’s uncle? I didn’t like the way he looked at you. What did he say to you? He seemed so angry.”

“He was upset because Ali’s body hadn’t yet been returned. He—”

It was then Javier noticed her mistake. He pointed, but it was too late.

“You forgot . . .”

The coffeepot.

Coffee hissed as it poured straight onto the burner, steaming liquid spilling onto the granite countertop and the floor.

“Helvete!” Laura seemed to freeze for a moment before flying in all directions at once, unplugging the machine and grabbing an entire roll of paper towels.

Javier rounded the counter, picked up the glass coffeepot, and slid it into place on the burner, where it could catch the rest of the coffee.

Laura stared at the mess on the counter and the floor, then dropped to her knees and began to wipe it up. “God, what’s wrong with me?”

He knelt down in front of her, caught her wrists. “You’re upset. Why don’t you go sit by the fire for a minute while I clean this up?”

Her gaze slid to his, her eyes filled with despair that had nothing to do with spilled coffee. “It’s my mess. I made it. I should clean it up.”

“I came here to help you, bella. Now let me help. That’s an order.”

She stood and backtracked out of the kitchen, careful not to step in the puddle.

Javier made quick work of it, then washed his hands and started heating milk. If he was going to make the coffee, he’d make it the Boricua way.

He carried the steaming mugs to the living room, where he found Laura curled up on the sofa and clutching a small pillow to her chest. He set her mug down on the coffee table and sat near her feet.

“Thank you.” She sat up, picked up the mug, and sipped, closing her eyes and making an “mmm” noise that sent Javier’s thoughts running in the wrong direction.

Get your mind out of your pants, Corbray.

When she opened her eyes again, her gaze was fixed on the fire. “They have to find him. They have to find the person behind this. Not just to keep me safe, but for Karima and Yusif’s sake—and Ali’s.”

“They will.” And when they did get him, Javier hoped it was with a high-caliber weapon. “Tearing yourself apart over this isn’t going to help anyone.”

He got to his feet, moved to stand behind her. “Lean back.”

She looked over her shoulder at him but did as he asked.